


silken flesh to brush my lips, a fruit sweetened by age

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Marty Hart, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Gentle Sex, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, M/M, Old Married Couple, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Series, Riding, Romance, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Synaesthesia, Top!Rust Cohle, marty hart gets dirty talked to death by rust cohle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Rust helps Marty to heal.(Cowgirl style bottom!Marty prompt fill for blackeyedblonde, now multichaptered. Could be considered a sequel tothis fic, but can be read separately.)





	1. seed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



> a celebratory fic ♡ things are looking up
> 
> not beta read, but i couldn't find any mistakes~

Marty had never been a man to show off his body.

Despite his affairs, his intimate escapades into purely sexual delights, he had always been conservative about showing skin. Not around women, certainly, but around _men._ Rust remembered the pyjamas that Marty had worn back in ’95, remembered being surprised that Marty wasn’t wandering around the apartment half-naked and strutting his stuff the way he usually did. That brief time they had spent living together had been the beginning of a revelation for Rust; he had properly realised the depths of Martin Hart, the complexity that the blue-eyed man tried to bury under crass humour and juvenile jokes. He had started to notice, after that point, the way Marty would wrap his towel tight around his waist in the CID changing rooms, his skin visibly prickling as he hurriedly dressed. Years later, when Marty's hair was thinning and he was gaining weight, the embarrassment he had felt towards his body had been screamingly obvious, though Rust had not been at the CID to witness it.

Now that they lived together, Rust was well acquainted with the shyness that Marty had developed in his old age. He liked it. He liked the way Marty would duck his head and blush whenever Rust gave him a compliment, cursing breathlessly and avoiding eye contact. He liked the way Marty would tentatively shrug off his clothes, glancing over as if to ask, _is this okay?_ He liked that he could read Marty’s insecurities, that he had the privilege of using his hands and tongue to prove that he loved every inch of Marty’s body.

That was why it took him so long to notice.

Marty covered himself up, more often than not, and generally didn’t like being naked for too long. It was only when he started to insist on always wearing a shirt to bed, flinching away when Rust tried to coax him into undressing, that Rust started to realise what was going on.

He didn’t insist, didn’t ask. That wasn’t how their relationship worked, and a direct approach would do more damage than good.

One morning, Rust was lying in their bed, the fog of sleep slowly drifting from his mind. He blinked open one eye lethargically, half his face pressed into the pillow. He could see Marty standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, shirtless. He was hesitantly pressing two fingers against the scar on his chest, the angry pink line that was a testament to the dull blade that had nearly killed him in Carcosa. His forehead was tight with distress, teeth worrying his bottom lip, morning light glinting off the tears that were beading in his eyelashes.

Rust closed his eyes. Pretended to be asleep, even as a whiplash of empathy and sorrow cracked through him hard enough to make him cry.

He had to fix this.

 

***

 

Marty trudged through the front door, bustling through the door frame with no small number of bumps and scrapes along the way, swearing loudly as he went. His arms were full of fishing rods and a net, a cooler under one arm, a tackle box in his other hand. He was wearing oversized fly fishing overalls, a green bucket hat, and a yellow shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Rust stood in the hallway with his beer, watching. His mouth was tilted up into a small smile. He let his eyes wander to the gold band on Marty's finger, just to feel the private flutter deep beneath his ribs, the delighted disbelief that they could have found each other at the end of everything they'd been through. 

“Come help me, you prick,” Marty grumbled, trying to kick the door closed behind him, “I caught us dinner and all. You need to pull your weight.”

Rust pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning, walked over. He took the fishing gear from Marty’s arms, dropped it on the floor.

“’Ey,” Marty exclaimed, “what’re you doin’, you nutcase-”

Rust pulled Marty against him. He brought their mouths together in a gentle brush, a tender kiss that he quickly deepened, dipping his tongue inside just to hear Marty whine in surprise, going slack where he stood. Rust lifted his hands, braced them around Marty’s face, cupping his jaw, feeling the flush of heat that he knew was turning Marty’s face red.

When he was done, he didn’t step away. He let his mouth hover near Marty’s cheek, lips dragging against soft skin as Marty breathed heavy.

“Jeez,” Marty whispered, “you’re gonna give me a heart attack, one of these days. We ain’t young no more.”

Rust smoothed his hand down the curve of Marty’s spine, seeking the shape of him through thick clothes. Marty’s body rolled unconsciously, mindlessly.

“I’ll help you gut the fish,” Rust promised, letting his voice deepen into a drawling murmur, the kind he _knew_ Marty couldn’t resist, “but later. For now, you should take ‘em to the freezer. So we can…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Didn’t need to.

“I need to shower, you freak,” Marty protested weakly, “I smell like fish and shit.”

Rust grinned. Leaned back just so their eyes could meet.

“You go do that, Marty. But don’t take too long.”

Marty scowled adorably, the tips of his ears burning beneath the brim of his too-big hat. “You still gotta help me carry all this stuff.”

“Sure will.”

 

***

 

Rust waited in bed, listening to Marty hurriedly scrubbing himself clean in the shower. Anticipation of what they were about to do was building inside him, thrumming like a second heartbeat. The heat pooling in his body was painted beneath his eyelids, liquid and honey-gold, the brightness of sunlight seeping through his veins, filling his mouth with the taste of summer. He was comfortable here, in the home that he shared with the man he loved, and he wanted Marty to feel that too. He wanted Marty to understand how _good_ it felt to move on from the pain that had been wrought upon them.

Naked, he reached a hand down to feel himself get hard, to stroke his fingers over already slickened skin. A shiver hummed up his spine, tilting up his chin so that he could groan quietly, the insistent grip of his own fingers a steady combination of _not enough_ and the ecstatic promise of what was to come.

He heard a hushed inhalation. When he opened his eyes, Marty was standing in the doorway, eyes wide, a damp shirt and underwear pulled over his still-dripping skin. Rust felt a pang of sadness, knowing why Marty was covering himself up even though they were about to have sex, but he ignored it. He needed to use his body to slip past Marty’s defences. Words wouldn’t be enough.

Rust slid his hand up and down, rolled his bottom lip under his teeth. Put on a show, just for Marty.

“…Fuck, Rust…” Marty's voice was hoarse, strangled. He shifted on his feet, seeming dumbfounded.

“Get over here,” Rust told him quietly, “ain’t got all fuckin’ night.”

Marty bent down to pull off his underwear, but left his shirt on. He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside Rust’s waist, bending down so that they could kiss. The mattress dipped under his weight. Rust closed his eyes, felt the hot slide Marty’s tongue decorating the inside of his mouth as Marty’s hand moved lower, palm curling around Rust’s cock. Rust hummed out a quiet moan, enjoying the way it was swallowed up by Marty’s lips. The sound of their kissing was wet and profound in the silence of the room.

After a few minutes, Rust hooked a hand under the meat of Marty’s bare thigh. Marty got the message, spread his legs so that he was straddling Rust’s waist. Something about the unfamiliar position must have sparked a question in his mind, because he straightened up, looking down at Rust with a small frown and swollen lips.

Rust took Marty’s wrist, guided it to his abdomen. Understanding sobered Marty’s eyes, seriousness clouding his face as his fingers were pressed to the scar that butchered Rust’s skin.

Rust held his gaze, let him know what this meant. Told him, in no uncertain terms, that the weight of Carcosa would not win. Not in this damn bedroom. Not in this house.

Then he reached out, lightly tugging at the hem of Marty’s shirt.

“Rust,” Marty began fearfully.

“It’s okay.” Rust told him, pushing up off the bed so that he could drape one arm around Marty, pulling him into a hug. “It’s just you and me here, a’right?”

Marty heaved an unsteady breath into his lungs. His arms wound around Rust, holding him tight.

For a while, they stayed there.

Then Rust pulled back, a question in his eyes. Marty nodded, his expression pained but resigned; giving his giving reluctant permission. Rust kissed him carefully, just to show his gratitude. He pulled off Marty’s shirt and threw it somewhere beside the bed. Marty’s shoulders curled inward, his eyes darting to the side, so Rust reached down to take him in hand. Marty’s eyelids snapped closed, his body jerking into the unexpected touch. His hips drove forward, the muscles of his thighs tightening. Rust continued touching him.

“You been plannin’ this?” Marty asked, voice quavering, hands coming to rest on Rust’s chest so that he could steady himself. “You been waitin’ to get me like this, huh?”

Rust gripped him tighter, didn’t bother answering. Marty whimpered, a tired smile flashing across his face. _Yeah,_ Rust could hear him thinking, _of course you’d see. Of course you’d know. Of course I couldn’t hide this from you._

“You feel good, Marty,” Rust said instead, gentle and quiet.

Marty laughed weakly.

 

***

 

The evening darkened into night, the world outside settling down to sleep, but the two of them didn’t stop. Rust ran his hands over Marty’s chest, hypnotised by the movements of his body, licking a wet stripe up Marty’s neck when the other man leaned forward to slump over his chest. He tasted soap and lavender, the musk of Marty strong under the cleanliness of his hasty shower. Violets and custard swirled in Rust’s mind, a hint of french vanilla ice cream, and he dragged his tongue over the rabbit-fast jumping of Marty’s pulse just to feel the resistance of skin. He wanted to _taste._

Marty reached down between Rust’s thighs, seeking to reciprocate. Rust pushed his hand away.

“I want you to come first,” he breathed, haggard and hungry, “then I want to fuck you.”

Rust’s confession doubled as a hushed instruction, and Marty froze. He shuddered himself into frantic, rutting thrusts, shoving his cock into the warmth of Rust’s palm. He came so hard that it looked like it hurt, his forehead knocking into Rust’s shoulder, a loud wail rising from his throat. Salt threaded itself through the air, the visceral scent as potent as the sweat on Marty's shoulders.

“Want you to ride me,” Rust told Marty, holding him close as he jerked and whined helplessly, “want to see you _fall apart,_ Marty. Want to know how good it is for you.”

“Fu- uck,” Marty hiccupped, one hand bunching into a fist beside Rust’s head, fingers clawing at the pillow, “fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Yeah, Marty,” Rust praised him, “that’s it. That’s it.”

Marty clung onto him hard enough to grind coal into diamonds, and then he let go. He went limp, gasping and panting, the long line of his back bare and damp in the dim light of their bedroom. Rust reached over and turned the bedside lamp on.

“God,” Marty sighed, voice shaky, “I think I just _expired,_ you psycho.”

Rust chuckled, pushed Marty up off him, easing him upwards so that he was sitting. Marty went willingly, loose-limbed and weak, his mouth hanging open. Rust reached beneath him, fingers seeking, curling up into Marty’s tight heat. Marty trembled, shook his head.

“Jesus, Rust, I can’t-”

“You can.” Rust told him, the hard line of his cock leaving wet marks on Marty’s leg. “You can, baby. For me. Want to see you like this.”

He didn’t call Marty _baby,_ not ever, and the endearment seemed to drive Marty to a whole new level of madness. His eyelids fluttered like he was dizzy with the need to sleep, small blips of noise bursting from his lips as Rust opened him up.

The glow of the lamp softened Marty, made him look as warm and supple as he felt. His hair, once blond all over, was now streaked through with hints of white and silver, catching the yellow hue and glimmering whenever Marty arched his neck back, face turned up towards the ceiling like he was in prayer. Rust touched him, smoothing his hand over the grooves and curves of Marty’s belly, brushing his thumb over that traitorous scar like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He sought the lube out from the bedside table, coating his fingers, leaving a shine on the fragile skin of Marty’s inner thighs as the excess dripped down the side of his hand. He wanted this to feel good. He didn’t want it to hurt.

He immersed himself in the stretch of Marty’s body, memorised the way Marty would quiver when fingers touched him _just so._ Moments stretched on and blended together, a fluid undulation of time, the come-slickened warmth of their tired bodies disconnecting them from the night as it progressed. It was just them. Nobody else. For all his philosophical ramblings and his deep insights into the nature of human existence, at his most honest Rust knew that  _this_ was his true religion. This _-_ the connection between them- was the only thing that mattered.

“Come on,” Marty eventually pleaded, “come _on_ , you bastard-”

“If you want it,” Rust replied, trying to make his voice seem at least a little authoritative, “then you take it, Marty. I won’t just give it to you.”

Marty opened his eyes at that. “You’re a goddamn horndog, Rustin Cohle.”

Rust smirked, blinking slowly, lazily. Marty took that expression as a challenge, apparently, because he lifted himself up off Rust’s waist, reaching down to grip the base of Rust’s cock.

Rust held his breath. Waited.

Then Marty slid down, his body pulling tight, tension coiled from the base of his hips to the rigidity of his shoulders. He grunted, frowning, unused to the angle. Rust drew in a sharp breath, took hold of Marty’s waist to force him down further, make him take the last inch. Marty jolted, crying out aloud.

It felt as inevitable and natural as the tide, when Marty started moving. He was unsure at first, recoiling at the burn inside him that was just  _too much_.

"Rust," Marty choked, "I- I dunno if I can-"

"You can. You can." Rust gripped Marty's hips, trying to keep his voice steady as heat built behind his skin, fireworks and flashes of colour exploding in the synapses of his brain. He eased Marty backwards and forwards, starting the motion for him, encouraging him. He hummed out quiet praise, eyes sparkling as he looked up. "Mm, come on, that's it."

Marty quickly gained momentum.

He arched and thrust, working Rust languidly, grinding down slow and _deep._ He faltered occasionally, as if it was occurring to him that he'd never done this before, but the hesitation in his eyes was quickly weighed down by lust, blanketed by overstimulated sensationwhen Rust folded his hand around Marty's softened cock and jerked him slowly.

“Damn," Rust growled, "you always were a fast learner."

“Shut up,” Marty replied, cheeks hot with a blush that extended down his neck, creeping over his chest, pink blemishes unfurling like rose petals. He moaned, sliding one hand over Rust’s chest, his palm dragging over the bullet scars over Rust’s ribs. Rust reached up, touched Marty’s scar, returned the intimate gesture.

“When I say I love all of you, I mean it,” Rust promised, gasping out the words in a rushed breath, “ _all_ of you, Marty, fuck. Don’t ever want you to hide. I want this. All of this.”

Marty nodded, a smile precariously quivering on his lips. Honesty meant something between them. They weren't careless with their words, usually tending to opt for the unspoken– which was why the whispered emotion in Rust's tone was as significant as a secret, as important as wedding vows.

Rust grinned back at Marty, feeling tears swell in his eyes. He breathed in, let the sensation flow through him.

Then he found his release inside his husband.

He let himself shake, let his body fall off the precipice and into a realm of sensation he could not control. The colours filling his mind were sparks of white and citrus, warm and hot like spices and oranges in the summer. Imbued with heat and succulence. The feeling was piquant, luscious, _juicy._ He could hear himself making sounds, his mouth open wide, tremors lurching through him as Marty continued to grind down onto his cock. He knew Marty was watching, could feel the _intent_ of his gaze like a gossamer-sheer weight over his skin, so he let go. Gave in, wholly and completely. It was only fair, after what Marty had given him.

Eventually, his head lolled limply on the pillow, whimper-tinged gasps filling the air as the taste of oranges started to fade from his tongue. Marty lifted himself up, and Rust groaned at the sensation of slipping out of Marty’s body. A flicker of yellow, rich and bright, splashed briefly in his mind's eye. He'd never really  _told_ Marty what sex was like for him, with his synaesthesia, but one day he thought he might. It seemed like a lot to admit, that Marty's body conjured masterpieces as vibrant and swirling as Van Gogh paintings in his brain... He didn't even know how he could encapsulate such an experience in words. But the fact that he had years to try and figure it out– well, thatfelt more magnificent than he could ever have dreamed.

Marty fell down beside him with an exhausted puff of breath, bones aching now that they had stopped. His arms wrapped around Rust. They breathed together.

“Thank you, Rust,” Marty said quietly.

Rust rolled his head around, eyes closed, and tenderly kissed the side of Marty's mouth.

They fell asleep, completely forgetting that they hadn't eaten dinner.

 

***

 

The next morning was brown, hazel and milk, the cream of their coffees balanced between smooth and bitter. Rust tasted strawberries and chestnut when they kissed, the sweet plumpness of fruit dancing over his tongue when Marty's lips pouted against his.

"No more hiding," Rust told him over the kitchen table.

Marty smiled, held his coffee up in a toast.

"No more hiding," he agreed.

 

 


	2. growth

Three days later, over dinner, Marty glanced up with a strange expression. Rust caught the look immediately, as he was wont to do, and Marty sighed exasperatedly.

“What is it?” Rust asked flatly.

“I swear it’s impossible to catch you off-guard,” Marty muttered, looking down at his dinner and poking dejectedly at his roast beef, “you’re like… _all-seein’_ or some shit.”

“Well now, I wouldn’t lay no claims to that,” Rust replied, the faintest hint of amusement creeping into his tone, “but you do make it pretty easy to tell when something’s wrong.”

Marty rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I’m just… I feel like an idiot, for bein’ so stupid.”

“’Bout what?”

“…My scar.” Marty replied, eyes now trained downwards with a more focussed determination. “You’ve never felt like that, right? You’ve never been… self-conscious. I just wish I could be like you.”

Rust sat still for several long seconds, before leaning across the table and flattening his hand over Marty’s, fingers curling around the edge of Marty’s palm. Marty looked up with no small amount of hesitation, forehead tight with a heavy frown.

“You ain’t stupid, Marty.” Rust told him, the earnestness in his eyes never failing to catch Marty off-guard. “Not for that, anyway.”

Marty snorted. “Don’t change the fact that you don’t feel the same way I do. That you’re… stronger than me.”

Rust’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Fuck off. Everyone’s human. I got worries of my own, things I’d like to change.”

Marty’s eyes widened, alarmed. “Like what?”

“Don’t matter. Point is, I ain’t no _superhero,_ and you best stop treatin’ me like I am. Everyone’s got their own complexities, and yours ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

Marty considered that, the idea that Rust could have insecurities of his own. They’d been together long enough for Marty to know that asking wouldn’t get him any answers on that front, not right now, so he turned just his hand over and threaded his fingers through Rust’s.

“You don’t… think I was overreacting, then?”

“No.”

Marty chewed at his lip. “You sure?”

Rust’s face settled into annoyance; he wasn't one to allow self-doubt to pervade the lives of those he loved. He leaned across the table, sudden and quick, pressing their lips together into a hard kiss. Marty let out a muffled exclamation, surprised. After a few seconds, he melted into it, sagging in his chair. Rust lingered, for a while, before leaning back.

“…Guess that answers that question, huh,” Marty chuckled.

Rust nodded, seeming satisfied.

They picked up their forks and continued eating.

 

***

 

That night, on the couch, Rust guided Marty onto his lap, hands framing his hips. Marty let him do as he pleased, let his shirt be unbuttoned and pushed off his shoulders. The television played on behind Marty’s back, its light dancing over him as he was undressed. He tilted his head back when Rust mouthed at his scar– this was what they both needed, this was what they both _wanted._ Rust touched him slowly, carefully, leaving no stone unturned, until Marty was writhing in place with aching knees and a sore back. Finally, Rust let him come, shuddering and whimpering. Marty felt strung-out and bare. _I’m getting too old for this shit,_ he thought, an exhausted wave of heat pounding through him.

“Want you to know how beautiful you are,” Rust whispered.

Marty didn’t know how to reply to that, because Rust was looking up at him with angular, sculpted cheekbones, bright blue eyes set into an enchanting brown face. Marty didn’t know how he could believe he was anything but _average_ next to this man. But Rust must have known that, must have sensed his scepticism, because then he was lifting Marty up and guiding him smoothly downwards. Marty whined as he was filled, stretched unexpectedly, Rust’s cock warm and deep inside. He gripped Rust’s shoulders, held on for dear life as Rust jerked and swivelled his hips, pulling Marty down onto every determined thrust. It was rougher, this time, than it had been three nights ago.

Rust buried his face in the softness of Marty’s neck, humming out rumbling moans when Marty began to dance his body in time to the pace Rust was setting.

“Been meanin’ to tell you somethin’,” Rust grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

“Yeah?”

“My- My synaesthesia, it… makes this _good._ Really good.”

Marty thought of that night, so long ago now, when Maggie had tried to set Rust up. He remembered the brief explanation, the words _a misalignment of synaptic receptors and triggers._

“You said,” Marty panted, “Back in ninety-five, you said it was like a… sensitivity. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rust said, taking hold of Marty’s hips and yanking his body down hard, “one sense triggers another sense. Right now, for instance-”

“Ah,” Marty cried out, “ _shit_ , Rust-”

“- I can taste honey. Thick, Marty. Dripping.”

“Fuck,” Marty shook his head, the fibres of Rust’s shirt straining in his white-knuckled grip, “Rust, I can’t, this is too much, slow down-” 

“It’s blooming inside me, like-” Rust’s head snapped back, his mouth opening wide, “like the _spring,_ Marty, you make me feel-”

He cut himself off, choking into silence, shuddering violently as he came. Marty watched him dazedly, trembling where he was precariously perched, knees either side of Rust on the couch. Rust continued to convulsively thrust upwards, and Marty fell forward, trying to lift his hips and escape the overstimulation. Rust held him still, fingers digging into Marty’s thighs. Marty squirmed, whining, but truthfully he liked it when Rust got a little...  _insistent._ He’d proceeded into old age expecting lonely nights and dull, uninspiring sex. He certainly hadn’t counted on being married to Rustin Cohle. He hadn’t counted on _any_ of this.

Marty clung on until Rust was done. Then, when Rust finally went limp, he straightened up and gave Rust his most annoyed glare. Rust grinned, head inclined loosely back against the couch, a greyed wave of hair brushing the curved hollow of his temple. He looked blissful, drugged, _euphoric_. Marty felt a tired echo of arousal, just knowing that _he_ was the reason for that expression.

“You’re insatiable.” Marty told him, his words still somewhat breathless. “A man your age shouldn’t be able to fuck the way you can. Jesus.”

Rust’s smile widened, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

***

 

Rust shuffled off to bed after that, but Marty stayed awake. He put on his reading glasses and took out his laptop, opening the internet. He made himself a coffee while the wifi came online.

He sat down, typed _synaesthesia_ into the search engine.

After half an hour of research, his heart was humming, sordid images flashing through his mind as he realised what Rust must have been experiencing during sex, all this damn time. _And he never said anything about it,_ Marty thought, disbelievingly. God, he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t stop replaying Rust’s open-mouthed cries in his mind, wondering what world of sensation he was experiencing every time he came.

More than that…

…Marty wondered how he could make the sex _even better._

 

***

 

Marty went into a store, sought out the items he’d come to buy. He told the assistant that they were for his wife, smiling embarrassedly as he handed over a heap of money.

_I can’t believe I’m doing this._

 

 


	3. pollenate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for hannah ♡ feel better

Marty put on the stockings and the panties that night, because he knew if he left it any longer he’d loose his nerve and be unable to go through with this.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror that was secured to the back of their wardrobe door. He didn’t like what he saw, generally, when he gave pause to inspect his reflection– and today was no exception. In fact, today was _worse,_ because he’d squeezed himself into these women’s clothes with no small amount of struggle, and they didn’t fit right. The stockings were too tight around his hips, and he hated the way that the plumpness of his body showed above the waistband. He’d done this because he wanted to bring new physical sensations into his and Rust’s night-time escapades, and on a certain level it had worked; the panties were silken, making him hard despite his discomfort, and the stockings were softer than any pants he’d ever worn. But what he saw, standing dejectedly in front of him, was an old man who was trying to be something he wasn’t. Trying to be _young_ again.

With tears rising in his eyes, he started to turn away from the mirror. He found himself staring right at Rust, who was watching from the doorway.

“…Shit,” Marty hid his face in his hands, “Just go away, Rust, fuck-”

But Rust was _there,_ suddenly, hands against him, gently tugging Marty’s face up out of his palms. Marty looked to the side, ashamed and embarrassed, wondering if he’d just ruined the best relationship he’d ever been in by acting like a goddamn fool.

“I had an idea, okay, but it was a stupid one, so just piss off and let me get out of these damn clothes, I look like a fuckin’ idiot-”

Rust made a soft, gentle noise, interrupting Marty’s panicked stream of words. He took hold of Marty’s jaw, tenderly turned his face around so that their eyes could meet. To Marty’s absolute shock, Rust was smiling.

“You oughta let me speak for myself, Marty,” he said, “and not go assumin’ things without askin’ first. Especially regardin’ the way you look right now.”

Marty blinked fast, the tears in his eyes stinging and making it hard to see. Rust took hold of him, pulled him towards their bed.

“You- What’re you doin’, Rust?”

“What you so obviously intended, before you got all damn shy ‘bout it.”

Marty, stunned beyond belief, let himself be eased back into the sheets. Rust looked down at him with those _eyes,_ an expression there that couldn’t have been named, an emotion far too soft for the debauchery they were about to embark upon. His long, clever fingers smoothed up the stockings, over thousands of sheer threads that clung to the curves of Marty’s legs.

“You did this,” Rust began quietly, “for me?”

Marty huffed out a laugh, crossed his arms over his chest, nervousness pounding beneath his skin like a tidal wave of hysteria. “Dunno who else I’d wear _panties_ for, Rust, so yeah. This is for you. Just figured, what with your synaesthesia and all, this might… feel good.”

Rust pressed his lips together into a tight smile. He tried not to chuckle, eyelids dipping down heavily. He moved his hand further upwards, palm following the landscape of Marty’s skin, fingers coming to rest midway up Marty’s thigh. Marty shifted where he lay, his erection trapped by silk and sleek nylon, legs falling open without his conscious intent. Rust let out a breath of laughter, a whisper of sound, and Marty glared upwards with pink cheeks.

“You laughin’ at me?”

“No. Just feelin’ awful lucky to have you.” Rust moved forward, between Marty’s legs. His eyes were crinkled at the edges by his smile; he looked adoring, but there was _something else_ there. A sharpness, a lustful intent that made Marty’s blush deepen into plum-rich embarrassment. He couldn’t _handle_ Rust looking at him like this. It felt like he was a doll on display, a tasty treat, strawberry jam for Rust to spread thin and _slurp up._

“You goddamn sap,” he muttered back, sniffing and wiping at his eyes.

“Sure am. Won’t apologise for it, neither.” Rust’s hand moved up to Marty’s hip, the calloused roughness of his palms dragging on the nylon. His eyes darkened into something even more _deliberate,_ and Marty’s next inhalation came faster than before.

 “You want me to tell you how this feels, huh?” Rust continued softly, moving his thumb in an arc over where lacy hem of Marty’s panties was flattened beneath the stockings. “You want me to tell you if I like it?”

“…Yeah,” Marty croaked, “s’pose so.”

Rust leaned forward, head bowing down, forehead touching against Marty’s stomach before his lips came to rest where his hand had been. He pressed a feather-light kiss against the fabric, hair tickling Marty’s skin.

“I taste fruit,” Rust murmured, the tenor of his voice vibrating through Marty’s bones, “smooth, sweet. Just like you.”

Marty sighed contentedly, the barest of tremors tightening his throat. He lifted a hand to play with Rust’s hair, hold the curve of his skull gently. He remembered the coffee-rich brown that Rust’s hair had been once, and he could still see flecks of it now. Streaks of vivid bronze amid stormy grey.

“Tell me more,” he whispered.

Rust moved his legs out from beneath him, body sliding down onto the bed so that he was lying on his stomach. His eyes were closed as he immersed himself in flavours only he could taste, visions of magnificence that only he could see. Marty lifted himself up onto one arm so that he could watch.

This was worship. This was devotion.

“You taste like syrup.” Rust smoothed his lips over the crease between Marty’s crotch and his leg, the wet heat of his mouth leaving dampness in its wake.

“Syrup, huh?” Marty inquired weakly, stroking a curl of hair away from Rust’s closed eyes.

“Stone fruits have been used as a metaphor for sexuality for centuries,” Rust informed him, licking closer to where the stockings were straining, the panties beneath tightened by Marty’s cock, “but you’re sweeter than that.”

“Christ, Rust-”

“You taste more like a pomegranate. Luscious. You’re sugary and smooth, but there’s a spiciness there too, a tangy uniqueness. Almost saccharine, you’re so ripe. You’re saturating me, Marty. Dripping through your skin and onto me.”

“Oh god,” Marty dropped his head back down onto the pillow, “Don’t even know what half that shit means, but if this is your idea of dirty talk, you’re doin’ it right-”

Rust curled his fingers beneath the waistband of the stockings, rolled them down. Marty let him, because shit, he couldn’t have stopped this even if he wanted to. They were pulled slowly down his legs, the air tickling his skin and making him shiver. He felt bare. Exposed. _Desperate._

“I want to peel you down, like this,” Rust continued as he eased the fabric off Marty’s left foot, “and hold you, just this way,” he cupped Marty’s heel, starting to pull the stockings off his other foot, “like slivers of a mandarin. You’re delicate.”

“Fuck off, I’m not delicate,” Marty gasped.

“You are. In your own way. But you’ll never wither, Marty.” Rust discarded the stockings, leaned forward again, the warmth of his mouth descending back down onto Marty’s clothed cock. “I taste summer in you. I taste heat.”

Marty choked out a shocked groan as Rust sucked him through the silk. His legs were held wide by Rust, his feet twitching here the rested against the mattress, and he’d never felt more exposed in his life. But there was little more he could do than blush about it, because Rust was using his tongue and his lips like his life _depended_ on getting Marty off like this. Marty whined, gently flexed his thighs just to feel the resistance of them being held open. He liked this. Being… _on display._

“C’mon, Rust, just,” he felt his breathing pick up incrementally, gasping now with things that he wanted but was not being given, “just fuck me already-”

“Come now, Marty, you put so much effort into this. What sort of man would I be if I let your efforts go to waste?”

Marty moaned. “You _asshole.”_

Rust chuckled, pressing his laughter into the silk, letting it spark a tremor of sensation through Marty’s body.

“I want to open you like a mango, Marty. Spread you.”

“ _Shit,”_ Marty put his hands over his face, this time out of pure helplessness, “what the fuck, you’re _filthy-”_

“Mmhm.” Rust agreed calmly, arching and bobbing his head, salt-slick moistness making his lips shine. “God, Marty, you don’t even know how you are. You taste delicious. You’re the only drink I long for. Have you ever bitten into a crisp green apple, felt the explosion of flavour? That’s what this is for me, Marty.”

Marty felt fingers go wandering, more purposeful now than they had been before, and he held tightly onto sheets as Rust yanked down the panties. He gasped aloud when Rust swallowed him down, fast and sudden as if it was _nothing._ The silk rucked around his thighs, soggy with come and strained tight by the pull between his legs. There was something so deeply sinful about it, about such a fragile and delicate fabric treated so carelessly.

He looked up, lifting his head to watch again. Rust’s eyes were closed, his expression easeful and relaxed as he ducked his head up and down, one hand curled around Marty’s length to lazily stroke what he did not feel inclined to force himself to take. There were age lines painting his face, tenderly decorating the landscape around his eyelids, and Marty had never seen anybody so beautiful. Despite himself, he felt an ache building behind his ribs, a warm feeling that cut to the core of him and made fresh tears rise to his eyes. He smiled, rested a hand against Rust’s jaw.

Rust opened his eyes, and Marty smiled wider. He felt his chin shake with the urge to sob, but he wasn’t sad.

“Thank you,” he whispered, for the second time in only three days, “Rust, _thank you.”_

Rust let affection soften the shape of his bright eyes, a look there that meant far more than they’d ever have been able to communicate through words. He continued on as he had been before, hollowing his mouth smoothly, the act too reverential to be considered just a blowjob. But this time, he kept his eyes open, hooded in wonder and pleasure both. This was about _seeing._ This was about _knowing_ one another, as they did so deeply. They’d done their time. They’d fought their fights. Now, at the end of it all, they deserved this.

He languidly shifted and moved, eyelashes loosely fluttering as Marty stroked his cheek. Endless minutes became lost to this, to what they shared.

Marty held on as long as he could, shivers humming down his spine, quiet words gasped and muttered, for Rust’s ears only. His fear of before, his worry and imagined sense of inadequacy, melted away along with any feeling of age. He was floating, anchored only by the spit-slick smoothness of Rust’s mouth and the coarse flatness of that clever tongue. Rust encouraged him onwards, swallowing him deeper, hands flattening out onto Marty’s abdomen as he pressed the tip of his nose against skin, ducking his head down as much as he was able.

When Marty came, it was with a laugh. A warm, pleased noise, breathy and helpless, delighted and blissful. His back arched off the bed, shoulders digging down hard, neck inclined backwards. He buckled and shook, curling like a flower as Rust continued to use his mouth so intently.

He wanted to say so many things, wanted to tell Rust a novel’s worth of confessions. He wanted to say _thank you, thank you, thank you,_ until he could no longer draw breath to do so.

But Rust moved over him, sliding their lips together into a tender kiss.

So he just wrapped his arms around Rust and held on.

It was all they had ever needed.

 

 


End file.
